Visions of Branaghan
by The Writer0214
Summary: Narnia-type story. What if the life you thought was ordinary never really was? Follow Jensen Prince's not-so-ordinary life from Kalamazoo, Michigan to Branaghan, the land beyond the misty veil. Adventure and romance awaits Jensen as beyond the veil! R&R!
1. Prologue

**P****ROLOGU****E**

**B**_ring me the Alana…_ This was the instruction of King Josephethanmar to his sons Prince Peredhìl, Prince Eredhìl, and Prince Branagh. The King of Branaghan lay ill in bed and only the Alana—a rare mythical bird with beautiful plumage—could heal the king. It was said that no one has ever seen such plumage, shining like the golden rays of the sun, burning like bright jewels of the rarest kind. No other bird had feathers as beautiful as the Alana. And it is said that it was birthed in paradise, created by the gods. Its voice was so soothing that it could lift anyone's spirits up and heal any illness when all medicine failed.

Each set his heart and eyes on the goal; the Alana. The bird could only be found on Turtle Island, an island in the shape of a turtle (which some believed to really be a gigantic sea turtle) that would appear only once every hundred years. The island would appear for an indefinite period of time and then sink again at will when it pleased.

And so the oldest of them set out to find the mythical bird. The journey was treacherous. It required travel through land and sea, forest and mountain, coastland to coastland. Prince Peredhìl set out on his quest, sojourning without guard or soldier by his side. For three months, all of Branaghan did not hear from him. Peredhìl was the bravest—and it could be said, the most foolhardy—of the king's sons. He was a strong man, and could take down two giants if needed. Every maiden in the kingdom fawned on him, admiring his strength and beauty. He was tall, handsome, had huge biceps, wavy raven-black hair, a short black beard, and piercing black eyes. His skin had a beautiful olive tone to it. Prince Eredhìl, though he had the same features as his brother Peredhìl, was more distinguishable. Instead of black eyes, Eredhìl had eyes as blue as the sky on a clear, cloudless day. He was also shorter than his brother Peredhìl, and his skin was white instead of olive. And while Peredhìl was skilled with the sword, Eredhìl was skilled with the bow and arrow. Peredhìl was a brawler and had a sharp tongue, while Eredhìl was quiet and soft-spoken. Also, it was known in all of Branaghan that the brothers loathed each other. And so it was no surprise that the younger of the two was excited at the prospect of taking the crown from his brother. Opportunity came in the form of a quest for the Alana.

"My son," King Josephethanmar said to him, one day, "I am an old man. If I were as young and vigorous as you and your brothers are now, I would have made the journey myself. Yet I cannot. Go now. Search for your brother, bring him back, and take the bird with you."

Now, the young Prince said in his heart, "I am young. My father is old. He faces the setting sun, I face the rising sun. If I go, perhaps he may award me the crown. Is that not the reason my brother Peredhìl went away on the journey? If I get the bird, I will get the reward and snatch Branaghan's scepter from Peredhìl's hand."

With this in mind, the Prince Eredhìl set off for Turtle Island. He searched far and wide for his elder brother Peredhìl. But either body or shadow he could not find. Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months. When all of Branaghan had not heard from either of the brothers, they expressed their desire to send the young Prince Branagh to search for them. The king readily agreed, for the Prince Branagh was Branaghan's last hope. But his mother Queen Hadassah would hear none of it. She feared for her son. She had had troubling visions of the young prince being tied to a tree, made a feast for lions, and left for dead. She deemed him "unready for such a burden as has been placed upon his young shoulders."

And the Queen Hadassah had perfect reason to fear. The young prince had only seen the span seventeen summers. His brothers had already seen one and twenty summers. He still had much to learn for he was but a lad. His face was clean-shaven; he had not yet touched a razor. He was inexperienced with either the sword or the bow.

He was not one for adventures and quests. As his brother Eredhìl put it, "If he were locked up in a scriptorium to copy sacred text in obedience to the gods and goddesses, he would have no objection! He would as easily live the life of a priest!"

But his father King Josephethanmar had faith in him. He believed his son could save his brothers and the whole of Branaghan. The king gave his blessing, kissed him, and for protection, gave him the Sword of Branaghan to wield. The prince journeyed, afraid and alone, but with lightness of heart for he knew he had his father's blessing. And the Sword of Branaghan was given only to the firstborn son. It was a birthright. He knew he had been chosen for the crown.

At a village called Sami'il, where he had to stop for the night, he met a mysterious figure. A wizard name Aras. He imparted words of wisdom to him and bade him good luck on his journey. "My son," Aras said, "Beware of the Alana. It sings so beautifully that it could lull anyone to sleep."

"That is why I go to take it to my father."

"But beware of catching it. It is very wily and can use its song as a defense."

"Meaning it can lull me to sleep to avoid capture."

"Indeed," the wizard said, with a nod, "You have judged wisely."

"Then how shall I catch it?"

Here, the wizard took from his sack a number of items. A dagger, a golden rope, small grape-like fruits the young prince had never seen before, and a cage.

"What are these?" he inquired.

"These," the wizard said, "are tools you may use in capturing the Alana. When you seem fascinated with the bird's song and begin to feel drowsy, use this dagger to make an incision on your arm.

Squeeze the juice of these plants and apply it to your wound. The pain caused by the wound and the sting of this fruit's juices will be enough to keep you awake. Catch the bird with this golden rope and place it in this cage. It will give you no trouble once captured."

The boy heeded the wizard's wise words and retired for the night. But before he went to his rooms, the old man added a few more words of instruction.

"Perchance, you may fall asleep. In that case, be careful not to sleep beneath the Alana's perch. Its droppings have been known to turn anyone—man, animal, or magical creature—into stone statues."

These words were forever embedded in the young prince's mind. He prepared for the last leg of his journey and accepted the gifts from Aras the Wizard. He caught the next ship and travelled by sea for seven days. When the captain did not agree to deliver him to Turtle Island, he dived into the water and swam to shore. Once on shore, he began his search. Among other things, he found his brothers' horses—or rather the remains—still tethered to a tree. Yet he could see no sign of Peredhìl or his twin. Not far from some banyan trees, he heard singing—the song sounding as though it was sung by a thousand women. It was magnificent! Angelic! Looking closer, he discovered who had been singing. He had found the Alana!

"It is singing—with a human voice and not chirping," he thought to himself, "It is no wonder they say it can lift anyone's spirits up!"

Its plumage was, indeed, one-of-a-kind. It shone like the golden rays of the sun. Like jewels in a treasure room. It shown red, deep purple, blue, green, orange; all the wonderful colors like those of a rainbow. He was enthralled. Just then, he remembered Aras' voice ringing clear in his head: "Whatever happens, make sure you do not fall asleep. Or if you do, do not sleep beneath the Alana's perch."

It was then that he noticed how sleepy he was. He was under the enchanted bird's spell! Immediately, he drew his dagger out of his sheath and cut his arm. Though he wanted to scream, he bit his lip, and squeezed the juice from the rare fruit the wizard had given him. The juice came in contact with the wound and sizzled. The sting caused him to let out a scream, this time. This scared the Alana, which then flew from its perch, into the air above. Although still hurting from his wound, the young prince was quick to act. He deftly tied the rope to form a lasso. Whirling the rope high above his head, he aimed at the bird. He caught it by its feet, held it in one hand, and with the other, loosened the rope. He immediately yet gently put the bird in the cage and shut it. And so the bird was caught, ready to be brought back to the King of Branaghan. So happy was the young prince that he nearly forgot about his original mission—to search for his brothers. It was then that he noticed two strange-looking stones, leaning against the banyan. Upon closer inspection, he noticed that they were statues. He remembered Aras' words: "Its droppings have been known to turn anyone into stone."

"My brothers must've fallen asleep beneath the Alana," he thought, "If so, how can I counter the spell." Just then, an idea occurred to him. If the dayap—for he remembered that the fruit was called thus—helped him to overcome the bird's sleeping spell, it might help him save his brothers yet. He took two and squeezed them, making sure to drop it on the stone statues. Slowly, the gray stone became soft and black. Hair showed on the top part of the statue. Then the forehead became as flesh, until all returned to normal and Prince Peredhìl and Prince Eredhìl became living, breathing men, once more.

Prince Peredhìl screamed and gasped. He shouted, "Luctor et emergo," which is to say, "I struggle and emerge."

His younger brother Prince Eredhìl simply scratched his short, black beard and said, "What has happened?"

"You have fallen under the Alana's spell. You were foolish enough to sleep under its perch. Its droppings have been known to turn anyone into stone. I found your lifeless forms and rescued you."

_Shall I let a youngling like him take my glory?_ Prince Eredhìl said to himself.

"And you learned this from whom?" Peredhìl said, breaking the silence.

"From a wizard named Aras. He also taught me how to ensnare the bird."

"Well done, my brother," Peredhìl said, outwardly, yet in his heart, he thought otherwise.

"How long have we been gone?" Eredhìl asked.

"It has been seven moons since all of Branaghan has heard from you," the youngest said.

"Well then! It will be best if we set out for home at once," Prince Eredhìl said.

The elder brother then, took the younger aside, and said, in a whisper, "Let us kill him that we may take the glory. In the New Kingdom, I shall be king, and you, my brother, will be privileged to serve as my viceroy."

"And if we kill him? What then? What shall we say when our mother and father inquire of the matter?" the younger asked.

"Let us say he was attacked by lions. Or that we were attacked by pirates but we were overrun and we could not protect him."

"Why not lose him? Let us confuse him—in this thick forest—that he may lose his way. We leave secretly, use your boat, and board a ship for home. Let us tell the king and queen that he was lost at sea," Prince Eredhìl said, for he did not want his brother's blood on his hands. And so it was that the brothers carried out their scheme. They called their youngest brother to them and said, "It would be a bad thing not to explore the beauties of this island. It only resurfaces, as we've been taught, every hundred years. We may not get another chance."

Not suspecting a trap, Prince Branagh agreed to tour the island. As the day wore on, they decided to rest near a cave situated on the "shell" of the turtle. They heard voices—laughter, like carousing. Stealthily, they snuck in to investigate. It was dark, and unless someone lit a torch, nothing could be seen. They made fires by rubbing and striking stones together. No one else was in the cave—or so they thought. But they could hear drunken singing.

"It must be spirits," said the superstitious Eredhìl.

"No, look," Prince Branagh said, in a whisper, touching his brothers' shoulders, "Pirates."

The group of buccaneers was storing jewels in chests, crates, and sacks. The jewels were of the rarest kinds. But more amazing was the fact that the jewels grew on trees! Its leaves were emerald, and its fruits and flowers consisted of the finest jewels. Carnelian, jasper, sardonyx, beryl, sapphire, onyx, ruby, emerald, chrysolite, chalcedony, chrysoprase, topaz, jacinth, amethyst…every rare and precious stone one could only dream of.

"Pirate scum," Prince Peredhìl muttered. This alerted the pirates, and they attacked the small group of three men huddled together. Prince Peredhìl drew his sword and advanced. His two younger brothers did likewise. Prince Branagh drew the Sword of Branaghan, and it was only then that the two princes realized that their father had given their youngest brother the throne. The pirates put up a fight, but with Branagh's help, the brothers were able to vanquish the filthy seadogs. They took their spoils and hoarded much more, each helping the other with his burden. But alas! At the entrance of the cave, the brothers attacked Prince Branagh, beating him to death with stones and stabbing him with their swords. After they had finished with him, they took the Sword of Branaghan, the bird, the dagger, the rope, and the dayap fruit, took his body, threw it into a cistern, and covered the cistern's mouth with a rock. That very day, the island sank back into the sea. So passed Branagh, son of Josephethanmar.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Back in Branaghan, the streets were filled with news of the princes' return. But there were portents of evil, for only two of the king's three sons had returned. News reached Queen Hadassah, and she wailed for her favorite son.

"Where is my son? My Branagh!" she said as she wept.

"We tried our best to save him, dear Mother," the brothers said, feigning to comfort her. But of course, they knew what had really happened.

"How did this occur?" inquired the king, "How could he be dead?"

"We were attacked by a group of pirates on our journey back. He tried to save us, and he was killed in the fray," Prince Peredhìl lied.

That very night, the poor queen's heart burst, unable to bear her sorrow. She was buried among her people in Iddo.

"Now," said Prince Peredhìl to his brother Eredhìl, "my plan is being set in motion. Mother has gone into the Shadows. It will not be long before Father follows her there. When I become king, you shall rule by my side as viceroy, just as I have promised you."

_No, now,_ Eredhìl said to himself, _when I am viceroy, I shall snatch the crown from your head._

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Days passed, and the royal physicians insisted on bringing the bird before the king. The king refused, for with his son Branagh dead, he found no more reason to live. But with much haranguing from his advisors, he finally gave in.

"Come," the king said to the bird, "Sing me a song."

Without hesitation, the bird sang for the King Josephethanmar. And it recounted in song what his two sons had done to their younger brother. The king burst with anger and sorrow; anger towards his evil sons, and renewed sorrow for his dead son. Josephethanmar then followed his dear Queen Hadassah into the Shadows. But before passing into the land beyond that veil where all mortal flesh must go, he made sure that his evil sons would never reign. He relinquished the throne to his brother Prince Luctor, upon the advice of his council. Despite the evil Peredhìl's protests, his uncle was placed on the throne, and the brothers imprisoned. But a revolt began, in support of the brothers, and their followers freed them. Peredhìl, having a sharp tongue, insisted upon seizing the throne immediately; but Eredhìl, being the quiet and patient one, suggested that it would be best to flee to a different land and to regroup there, attacking Branaghan and seizing the throne when the right time had come. This was agreed upon, and the brothers and their men escaped. Peredhìl went on a southwest route and established a fortified city in a barren wasteland, naming it the Darklands. Eredhìl went northwest to Iddo, his mother's birthplace, to seek political asylum there, under his maternal grandfather, King J'onn. But before leaving for their destinations, Peredhìl took the Sword of Branaghan. It has been in the possession of the Darklanders to this day. The Darklanders swore revenge on the Branaghanians believing it was their right to rule, and the Branaghanians, likewise, swore revenge on the Darklanders for the death of their sovereigns. And they vowed never to cease going to war until they had reclaimed the Sword of Branaghan. Enter Jensen Prince, the prophesied messiah of the Branaghanians.


	2. Chapter 1

**I**

**W**ith the Sword of Branaghan, which I wield…I break these chains and summon the Shield!" Jensen swung his sword and struck the chains that blocked the entrance of the cave. Lighting flashed, thunder rolled, and the blade emitted a blinding yellow light. With a loud, resounding _clang_, the mighty chains shattered to pieces.

"I cannot believe it!" Nash, one of the Seven Protectors said, "Our task is almost done."

"Not yet, dear, Nash," Mordecai the Dwarf said, "The Lady must wake the knights and Prince Jensen must lead them into battle."

The witch stepped forward. Unrolling the scroll in her hand, she began to read and said, in a loud voice, "Awake sleepers! Rise from your death! Branaghan, sun god, bring them light! Cyril, moon goddess, give back their breath!"

From within the cave, rumbling sounds were heard, a shout emanated from within, and the earth shook violently!

"It is a trap!" one of the protectors shouted, "The witch has betrayed us!"

"No, look!" a boy named Owen, one of the Protectors, said, pointing at the entrance after the earth had finished shaking. And they were glad to see what had caused the earthquake. There, standing before them was a great army, vast, innumerable—like a swarm of locusts destroying the crops before harvest, like sand on the seashore, like the stars in the night sky. Jensen raised the sword high, and the army recognized it. They gave a triumphal shout and rallied to their Prince. Archers, swordsmen, captains and generals were prepared to follow their Prince into battle.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Nineteen-year-old Jensen Prince's alarm clock went off, and he woke up with a start, sweating, palpitating. Screaming. He tried to catch his breath. He looked at the digital clock on his nightstand. Six o'clock. Of course, it was only a dream. But the dream seemed so real, he could've sworn it happened! What could it mean? If he didn't have to eat breakfast and get dressed for school, he would've gotten on his computer and searched for "dream interpretations" or "dream meanings." But he had to go.

_Is it really 6:00?_ he thought, groggily, _Looks more like 8PM_.

It was exceptionally foggy, today of all days. What did he expect? He lived in Kalamazoo. _Typical Michigan weather_, he thought, grumbling to himself. Or was it? The fog was so thick he couldn't even see out his window. He shivered. He didn't want to go to school. On days like these, he just wanted to go back to bed like everyone else.

He trudged down the stairs, his hair still messy, pajama top still on, and his jeans zipped up but unbuttoned. His glasses hung loosely from his ears and nose and threatened to fall off.

"Sup, sleepyhead?" his roommate Peter teased, "Change into a shirt, man."

"Get a house," he shot back.

"Oh, I will. Once the economy improves. Lucky I got low rent staying at your parents'."

Jensen hopped down from three steps and landed on the floor, nimbly, like a cat. Slowly, he walked to the table, sat down, poured some cereal and milk into a bowl and started eating, munching it slowly.

"Get a job, by the way," Peter said, fondly ruffling his friend's hair.

"I will, I will. I've been looking," Jensen replied, taking Peter's hand off his head.

"Alright. Just a reminder. By the way, do you mind if I use the upstairs shower first? You can use it after me."

"Nah," Jensen said, resignedly, "It's fine. I can wait."

"Cool."

His roommate went upstairs to take a shower. With him out of the picture, he could think about the meaning of his dream. He was certain Peter would only laugh if he told it to him.

Slowly, the walls of the kitchen began to fade. Jensen was surprised to find himself outside, in a thick forest. Where was he? _Something tells me this ain't no longer Kalamazoo!_ he thought, panicking.

The place was surrounded by fog—thick fog, just like in his Kalamazoo home. Thick, slow swirling fog. It was like a curtain! Suddenly, that curtain was parted. A hooded horseman came galloping out of the fog, heading straight towards him. The rider swung his sword and pointed it at his neck. Fell to the ground just in the nick of time, avoiding the blow to his neck. He got up, shakily, but fell back down. When he looked, the horseman had vanished.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

"Dude! Jens, are you alright?" Peter said, as he came bounding down the stairs. He had heard Jensen screaming, then things crashing. His parents, too, had heard the crash and were running down the stairs along with his roommate Peter.

They found Jensen on the floor, flat on his back, the chair he was sitting on broken. Spilled milk, coffee, and cereals ran from the counter and dripped onto the floor. His mug and bowl were broken.

"What happened?" Paul Prince asked his son.

"N-nothing," Jensen responded, shaking, "I j-just saw a spider."

Peter chuckled, and Jensen's parents looked at each other and shook their heads.

"Yeah, like _you_ would understand!" he shouted, angrily, got up, trudged up the stairs, took a quick shower and left for school, slamming the door on his way out, not caring to look back and bid everyone in the house goodbye.

Jensen had fallen asleep in History class, and he woke up with a scream, flailing his arms. Dr. Hendricks approached him, and said, "Do I look like a character from a horror movie to you, hmm, Mr. Prince?"

"N-no, sir. Of course not," he said, looking down.

The truth was that he had seen another vision like the one he had at breakfast. It was a fortress, this time. There was a huge scale battle, and whichever side he was on seemed to be losing. He felt two men grab him from behind, and the same hooded horseman appeared.

"I have you now, at last, Dayspring!" he said. The vision ended, and he woke up.

Everyone in the room was rolling with laughter, by now, even his long-time crush Chelsea Stanton. "Weird," she whispered to her seatmate, and rolled her eyes.

"Alright, class! Alright! That's enough! Now, if you please? Let us continue with today's lesson. And come to my office after class, Jensen."

A chorus of "oooohhhs" and aaaahhhs" could be heard from the middle and back rows. Dr. Hendricks took a stick from the board and hit his desk hard, multiple times to get the class to quiet down.

Class progressed, but not long after, Jensen Prince started shouting and screaming again. Another vision. This time, he was in a dungeon.

"You were fools enough to trust a Darklander like me," a voice said, though he couldn't see the man who said it.

"Who are you? Show yourself!" Jensen screamed, trying to get the man in the shadows to show his face. A ribald laugh. A jiggling of keys and chains. Footsteps. The man stepped forward, and he could see by the pale moonlight that seeped in through the solitary hole above. He was dressed like a Muslim Turk, circa 1400, a scimitar in his hand. He sheathed his sword, stepped closer, and opened the cell with his keys.

"You know me," he said, gruffly, gripping Jensen's jaw. Then he slammed him against the wall. He moved to the next prisoner.

"And you," he said, sadism in his voice.

The man beside Jensen spat on their captor.

"Ben will be avenged!"

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Jensen walked nervously to Dr. Hendricks' office. His heart was beating wildly against his chest; he felt his ribcage would break. He rapped gently on the door.

"Come in," Dr. Hendricks called from inside his office. Jensen slowly opened the door and went in.

"Ah, Jensen! Come on in! Take a seat. Take a seat," Dr. Hendricks said, motioning to a chair. Jensen sat down.

"Now, Jensen, I know you're one of my top students. But some things have been happening, lately that I don't like. You've been disrupting the class with your screaming, you've been falling asleep in class…"

"I know, sir. I've been having these horrible nightmares."

"Nightmares?"

"Scary, horrible."

"What kinds of nightmares, I mean? Tell me. Maybe I can help."

"Y-you wouldn't understand, sir."

"Why not?"

"It's hard to explain. I can't even understand them, myself."

Dr. Hendricks pulled out a slip of paper from a drawer and wrote something on it. He gave it to Jensen.

"Here," he said, handing it to him.

"Wh-what is this for?"

"Make an appointment with the school counselor."

"Me?"

"Yes, you, Jensen Prince. You."

"But sir, I—even the counselor wouldn't understand!"

He handed Jensen another slip of paper.

"Here. Go have yourself checked at the school clinic. Have you been tested for illegal substances?"

"Sir!" Jensen shouted, pounding the table with both his fists. He reddened. Outside, students crowded before the closed door of the history professor's office, listening in on what was going on. Curious.

Dr. Hendricks raised an eyebrow.

"I'm only trying to help you. Help yourself, Jens."

"I don't need no help! Alright? I don't need no help! Hear me?!" Jensen said, storming off angrily, out of the professor's office.

"Weird," Chelsea Stanton whispered to her girlfriends, as they huddled in a section of the corridor.

"Wonder what Veronica Vale and Melissa Summers saw in him… He's geeky, he's not that handsome, and he's a nutcase," one of them said.

"Maybe that's why Melissa left him to go back to her ex." Chelsea's friend Sydney said, with a smirk, cocking her eyebrow.

"'Nough said," Chelsea said, scoffing.

"Wait! What was that I heard? Melissa has a new boyfriend named John? Looks like her ex didn't want her back, after all." another one of Chelsea's cronies said.

"Listen," Jensen said, walking up to them, "You leave Veronica out of this. She's my childhood sweetheart. As for Melissa, I don't want…to hear…that name. Ever. Again! And keep her out of this!"

The girls just chuckled, laughed, and shook their heads while Jensen walked off.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

It was still dark when Jensen Prince left campus, but the fog had already lifted, so he found no reason to use his low beams, and just used his regular lights, instead. He put his knapsack in the passenger seat next to him, closed the door, got in, and drove home. But while he was driving, the fog came rolling in again. It seemed thicker, this time. _Swirling mist upon a vast glassy lake_, he thought, sarcastically. Something at the back of his mind told him to stop the car and wait for the fog to lift before continuing on his way. But he wanted to be home. Now. Today was a rough day for him. His favorite professor thought he was either crazy or a druggie—and probably thought of flunking him, his longtime crush was acting like a total witch "with a capital _**B**_," his parents and roommate don't believe him, he was reminded of a wound he thought was already healing, he missed his best friend and childhood sweetheart Veronica Vale, and now…this stupid fog. Again.

Jensen continued on his way minding neither the fog nor the road. Frost had begun to form. But Jensen Prince could care less. He just wanted to go home. He drove furiously, despite the fact that he could see nothing. _Screech!!!_ Then a crash! He blacked out.


	3. Chapter 2

**II**

_**W**__here am I?_ Jensen Prince thought to himself. He had blacked out twice before fully regaining consciousness. The sun was shining full on his face, birds were twittering, and he could hear the gurgle of a rushing brook, nearby. He wondered where he was. This was not Michigan, for sure. Was he having another vision? Or had he gotten into an accident, died, and gone to Heaven? His question as to the accident was answered when he saw the front of his car. It was wrecked, white smoke coming out from under the hood.

_Well, I must be dead, then_, he thought, _Or dreaming. Let's see…if I pinch myself…?_

He pinched himself. _Ouch!_ he thought, _I'm awake and alive, alright_.

"Where am I?" he asked.

He heard voices; gruff, deep, hollow voices.

"Where is it? Find it!" someone said.

"Look! Over there!" another one said, "Smoke!"

"A dragon?"

"I am uncertain, Captain. Let us have a look. Perhaps it is a giant that has fallen."

Jensen heard leaves rustling. The voices and the rustling came from the starboard side of the car. He saw leaves and branches moving when he turned. Crouching low, he observed from afar—inside his car. The soldiers broke through the thicket and advanced toward him. Some had their swords drawn, while some had theirs sheathed. He could see by their look that they were afraid and uncertain. Who wouldn't be? These were men from another time—or world—and haven't seen a single car before.

"It is witchcraft!"

"Look!" one of the soldiers said. Jensen knew he was pointing at the wheels.

"It has wheels. Then it must be a carriage," another soldier said.

"But it is made of steel. It must be a chariot."

"If it were a chariot or a carriage," Captain Jongathan, the captain of the guard said, "Where then are the horses?"

"They might have run off, Sir."

Jensen heard a loud clanging sound.

"Buffoon! If they had run off, where are they?! We should have seen or heard horses! And where is the bit? The reins? The harness and the tack?" Jensen peeked. The soldier was holding his ears. Blood seeped through his fingers. Apparently, the captain had hit him with his buckler.

"I recall a prophecy, milord! It is said that when the Dayspring comes, he will come in a horseless carriage."

There it was again! That word! Dayspring… Maybe this was another vision. But Jensen had already disproved that by pinching himself. _A horseless carriage?_ he thought inwardly, _Do these people think I'm their deliverer?_ His thoughts were interrupted, however, by the gruff voices of the captain and his men.

"Why did you not speak up, then?!" he shouted. The man had no time to speak, however. In a moment, the sound of a sword being unsheathed and slicing through the air was heard. Then a guttural gargling, rasping. A dying breath. Then silence.

"Go! Look for him! He may not be too far off!"

The soldiers marched along. When Jensen thought the coast was clear, he got out of the car. But the door made a sound. In addition, he fell, his body making a sound as he hit the ground. He was crawling.

"There! Over there!"

"You! Stop in the name of King Arias of Iddo!"

He froze. At once, seven soldiers were around him, their swords trained at him. He could not get up. One of the soldiers grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and forced him to his feet.

"Where are you from? And what is your business here?"

"I—I…I'm f-from… From Michigan, milord," he said, addressing the captain, "Kalamazoo, Michigan."

"Michigan? What is Michigan? And where is it?"

"I… I have lost all sense of d-direction, s-sir."

"Insolent boy!" Captain Jongathan said, backhanding him, wounding him in the mouth.

"I…I came from that way," Jensen said, trembling, pointing to a dense forest almost covered with fog.

"You came from the Land Beyond the Misty Veil?"

"What?"

"Silence, you fool!" Another slap. Another wound.

"Be quiet if you wish to spare your tongue!" the lieutenant said.

"Or your head," added another soldier.

"That's enough!" Captain Jongathan said, "Bind him! Chain him up, and take him to the palace!"

"Milord." The soldiers bowed and did as they were told. And on they marched, with the Dayspring in their custody. But unbeknownst to them, someone was secretly watching them.

When Jensen grew tired, he was tossed into a cart, driven by one of the Iddonian soldiers. He looked around scared, not knowing what to do. He was wondering, too, where he was.

"We're being taken out of Branaghan and are about to enter Iddo," a fellow captive said to him in a whisper.

"Iddo? Branaghan?" But the prisoner had no time to explain.

"You!" a guard shouted. With one stroke of his sword, the man was no more. His head rolled off the carriage and dropped onto the dusty road. It kept rolling until it was out of sight. Gore was everywhere. Jensen wanted to scream but could not.

"Speak and your time will come," the guard said, referring to Jensen's beheading should he speak a word.

It was nightfall when they had reached the border between Iddo and Branaghan. As they passed the gates, Jongathan noticed the people's indifference. Long ago, they would have cheered for the returning soldiers. But after years of taking prisoners whom they believed to be the messiah of the Branaghanians, the people had stopped caring. After all, it was another prisoner. The Dayspring had not appeared. What good would that do them? They were waiting to get their hands on the Dayspring. Apparently, they thought this was just another prisoner.

Jongathan said to himself, _If you only knew, oh, Iddo, who it is we have conquered, you will shout in victory for us and hail us conquering champions, as though coming home from a great battle!_

Jensen observed the people, too. They were shaking their heads in pity for him. As they passed through the town, he could see why. There were chopping blocks and gallows set up all around. Either he was to be hanged or beheaded. He gulped, scared more than ever. The first time he feared for his life.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The following morning, in Branaghan, an old man was shouting at his lazy, careless, undisciplined student. The old man's name was Aras. He was a wizard.

"Wake up, _Master Samael_," he said, with sarcasm, "You have a long day ahead of you, _Your Highness!_"

He pulled the sleeping youth by the ear, out of bed, while his two companions snickered, watching from afar, as the wizard dragged him outside. He moaned in pain.

"Rough night?" Ben, the oldest student said, teasing the boy. Samael aimed his fist at his friend and would have hit him square in the jaw had the wizard not intervened by using magic to freeze him.

"Stop! Samael! And you? Instead of teasing him, why not encourage him, you two?"

"Your pardon, Master Aras," the older boy said, bowing. But Owen, the youngest of the group kept on snickering. Ben stomped on his foot to make him stop, which seemed to have worked.

"Now. Do you promise, Samael, to be more disciplined? To be as disciplined as your brothers? And to hold your tongue and keep your temper?"

The wizard unfroze him so he could nod and answer.

"Y-yes, M-master Aras."

"And do you, Ben and Owen, promise never again to tease Samael, even if it is an 'enjoyable' pastime to you?"

"We swear by the gods, Master."

"Very well. And keep your brothers in check at all times. The problem with you is that yes, you are my most responsible student. The wisest. The strongest. Bravest. Stoutest. The most skilled. But you sometimes forget to keep your younger brothers in check. As is the case of Samael. And sometimes, Owen. And you have the tendency to become too cocky."

Ben looked down. Owen blushed crimson at the mention of his name. It was true. He was as undisciplined as Samael was. But he, too, like Ben, had his shining moments.

"Forgive me for my remissness, Master."

"Now that all is settled, let us begin. Come! You are lagging behind in your lessons, all of you. You have much to learn and more to do. The hour is near. Come!"

"Come now, my brothers. Let us follow our master."

The three youths were not brothers by blood, but they were brothers by heart. They had been brought up together in the home of Aras the Wizard, had been taken care of and protected by him, and had learned under his tutelage. He had taught them magic. Herbology, ancient runes, alchemy, potions, spells and charms, incantations, divination. He also taught them about non-magical things. Things like hand-to-hand combat and wrestling, horseback riding, swordsmanship, archery. He taught them how to keep trim and fit, honing their physical skills. They had learned how to fight using sticks, and when they had grown in age and improved in mind and body, the sticks were replaced with swords. He also taught Owen how to read. He taught them writing, music, and poetry. He also taught them how to cook. The old man was like a father to them.

When they arrived at the field where they train, their weapons were awaiting them. Samael picked out a trident—something he had never used before. He had no experience handling it. But the wizard just watched him silently—intently—wondering what he would do next. He would have been a promising student had he only been disciplined. Owen picked two daggers from the line of weapons laid out before them. Ben picked a sword—a weapon he was most comfortable using.

"You will train like you have always done before. But before you commence, a word of caution to you all. There are dark days ahead of us. You must rely on each other for strength. You must not be three but one, so that you may be able to stand through the dark hours. Stand firm, together. As one, you may be able to fight the coming darkness. You may now begin."

The wizard's words troubled his students, but Ben showed no cowardice. He was not shaken. His face was set, his spirit resolute. He had a stout heart. He was the one Owen and Samael looked up to. He would be the ideal leader, and he would most certainly make an excellent master in replacement of Aras the Wizard. He was preparing them for that day. It was coming closer.

In Iddo, a despondent Jensen Prince kept pinching himself, trying to convince himself that he was only dreaming. And this was just another nightmare like so many others. But this was no nightmare! He wasn't dreaming. This time, it was all real. His arms and legs were all covered with scars, having pinched himself continually until he bled. His sides and chest, too, had scars now. And now, sitting in the dark confines of his cell, he lost all hope. Doubts and dark thoughts crept into his mind.

_Will I ever get out of here? What am I going to do now? Why did I ever get myself into this mess?_

He was hungry. It had been more than twenty-four hours since he last ate. At least in this world. Who knows how long he had been gone? Were people looking for him now? His head ached, and he was suffering another bout of nosebleed due to the beatings. He felt fresh, warm blood trickling down his lips. He could taste it. He felt something scurry across his leg. A rat.

"Dammit!" he swore.

Suddenly, light flooded the dungeon and his cell was opened. He squinted, shading his eyes against the light with his hand. Two guards rushed in and grabbed him forcefully, dragging him from the palace's subterranean dungeons. He was brought to the king's throne room. Bruised, bloody, beaten. Half-naked. Chained. One of the guards that flanked him hit him in the back of the head, sending him crashing to the floor. He tried to get up, but his knees were shaking. He could only kneel.

"Who are you?" King Arias demanded of him. Jensen remained silent.

"Answer, fool!" one of his captors said, pulling him by the hair, forcing him to stand. The king waved his hand, dismissing the guard. The guard let him go. The king rose from his throne, stepped down the dais, and approached the prisoner. He held the boy's face in his hand. He tightened his grip, almost crushing his jaw.

"Who are you," he repeated, then added with a sneer, "Where do you come from."

Again, Jensen did not answer. It was a sign of his defiance.

"You dare not answer me?" the king said, and hit the boy's head with the back of his hand. Jensen reeled.

King Arias called the guards back in. "Take him out of here! Bring him to the dungeon to await execution. We shall turn him over to the Darklanders. Let them be the one to dispose of him."

The guards took him forcibly by the arms and dragged him back to the dungeon. He was again in the dark subterranean dungeons of the King of Iddo. He was resigned to his fate. He was awaiting execution. Though at first, he was afraid, now he took it nonchalantly. But home still remained. He may have yet an ally in this dreadful place. Even in the dark confines of his rat-infested cell, he could see the king's daughter—the Princess Adina, her fair, beautiful face paling with shock at the news of his fate. He swore he could see an expression other than fear in her eyes. It was something else. He couldn't quite place what it was. Perhaps it was infatuation. Or else, love.

_She looks like Chelsea Stanton_, he noted, _Only, she has shorter hair than Chelsea_.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Back in Branaghan, the Wizard's three students continue their training. The first to do battle were Ben and Samael. Ben gripped his sword tight and prepared both to attack and defend. He did not want to attack just yet. His brows were knit. A drop of sweat slid down his forehead. He was strategizing, they knew. Samael, on the other hand, ever the impulsive one, took advantage of the opportunity and took a swing at Ben with his trident. The older boy tried to block his opponent's attacks, but his blade caught between the prongs of Samael's trident. He struggled, but it took him long before he could free his sword from the grasp of his opponent's three-pronged instrument. Metal clashed against metal. This went on for half an hour. Sometimes Samael gained the upper hand, other times it seemed like Ben was the conqueror. The crisp morning air was filled with the sound of clanging armor.

"Your fighting skills have improved, Samael!" the Wizard shouted above the din, "You are commendable!"

Owen applauded to encourage Samael. "Finish him!" he shouted. The statement distracted Ben and he backed away as if to retreat. His sword fell from his hand and he looked back. Samael saw his chance and swung his spear, aiming at the head. Ben fell back with a powerful force. He fell to the ground, cutting his leg with a stone. Blood dripped from the wounds in his head and leg. For the very first time in years, Samael was the victor. The younger was champion. He felt proud as he loomed over his friend and brother.

"Samael!" the Wizard called, "Wipe that smile away from your face. Do not be so proud."

His smile faded and he extended his hand to help Ben up. Ben clasped his hand and embraced him.

"Well done, brother. You have made me proud this day."

The Wizard healed Ben's wounds with his herbs and let him rest. Then he said, "The second battle will be between Owen and Samael. Ben has to gather his strength. The last battle shall be between him and Owen. You may commence. And no using magic to disarm your opponent!"

Owen stood poised, ready to fight. He had learned his lesson from watching his friends fight. He should not underestimate Samael. No matter the circumstances.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

In Iddo, King Arias held a council. A council of war. It was composed of the king himself, his advisers, and his officials. Captains of tens, captains of fifties, captains of hundreds, generals in the Iddonian army. To his right sat Captain Jongathan, soon-to-be a general in the army. He sat like a prince, as though he were one of the king's sons. Or the king's son-in-law.

A soldier entered the Chamber of Meeting and announced to the king and to the others with him, "The delegation from the Darklands has arrived."

"Send them in."

"Milord." The soldier bowed and left. A moment later, a group of advisers from the Darklander-King was ushered in. King Arias stood to greet the group. Then he sat down, wanting to get down to business.

"We hold in our hands the deliverer of the Branaghanians. The one the Oracle calls the 'Dayspring.' Although the tale is unbelievable due to the ease of his capture, I assure that the boy is the true deliverer. I have looked for signs that might tell me who he really is. And I can assure you, without doubt, _he is_ the one. He, for example, has a red mark on his left hand. A mole on the big toe of his left foot. Two moles on his left hand's middle finger. There are other things I am watching for. But rest assured, he is the one we have all been looking for. Now the question remains. What must be done with him?"

"We must kill him," one of the Darklanders said.

"Who, then, shall do the deed?"

"It is a privilege for us to dispose of him," another said.

"No!" an Iddonian protested, "It is _our_ privilege to slay the Dayspring!"

"No! It is ours!"

This went on for several hours. The council debated back and forth, deliberating Jensen's fate. Finally, near dusk, the council settled on a decision.

"Do you not realize that while we debate here, the Dayspring's knowledge grows? He dies tomorrow! Rest here for the night. Tomorrow you shall take him back with you to the Darklands."

It was then that the Princess Adina chanced to hear their conversation and had heard what had just been pronounced. The death sentence of the Dayspring. She turned pale at the words and made for the underground vaults at once, and into the subterranean dungeons of the palace.


End file.
